The Potion Brewer's Husband
by Xandra Fox
Summary: One-shot. Bertie's painfully unassertive disposition could very well be the death of him...or somebody else. A peek into the wearisome life of Bertie the henpecked husband. Somewhat of a crack/dark fic.


**Genres: **Angst/Family/Horror

**A/N****: **Rated T because like I said, this is kind of a darkfic. And it's just brimming with over-the-top angst, because don't we all like to laugh at the misfortunes of Bertie? Or maybe it's just me. I might be a horrible person.**  
**

About a year ago, I was talking to my sister about how you can pretty much write an intriguing story about any minor Zelda character. They all just have this hidden depth to them, you know? Layers. Potential.

But then after a little thinking, I took back that statement, saying, "I don't know. Could you really write a good story about the Potion Shop couple? They're really not that interesting."

Her response: "Sure you could, bro! (because we call each other bro when we're playing Super Mario Bros.) You could totally write *this*"

So this is it. If you can make it to the end without falling asleep or clicking the back button, then I consider this fic a success.

**.-.-.-.-.-.-.**

**THE POTION BREWER'S HUSBAND**

A Skyward Sword Fanfiction

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

Every day was a struggle for Bertie the potion brewer.

It was almost as if days no longer existed. Out the window smeared with dust and grime, he had observed the dead of night shift to the gray of impending morning more times than he could count. He had watched white stars fade into dawn after dawn, until the sunrise was no longer a marvel to him. Without sleep, the divide that separated one day from the next, that provided closure to yesterday and restful, dream-filled passage into tomorrow, the days began to blur. Bertie's life had become one big messy picture where colors ran together, brown and indistinguishable.

His eyes flew open, the baby's cries ringing in his ears. He jerked his head up and squinted across the room. The baby was sound asleep in her crib. He only dreamed she had woken.

The smell of sour pumpkin juice filled his nose. He shifted and felt something sticky on the floor beneath him, tugging at his clothes and skin. He must have passed out while going for a drink. A few times he willed himself to get up, but his limbs didn't seem to want to move. He was too tired to get up, but the floor was so gross. He had to. He rolled himself onto his belly and started to push himself up off the floor, but his wrists buckled and he flopped back down.

Again, he tried to stand up, and this time he was successful. He slowly rose to his feet and started in the direction of his bed, feeling a little off-balance. His eyes strained to adjust in the dark.

He registered the faint outline of the waste basket a millisecond after he stumbled into it, the floor tilting as it rushed to meet his face. The waste can toppled over, its contents spilling onto the floor. For a long moment, Bertie just lay there, his head throbbing painfully where it had collided the floor. In the pile of spilled trash, he could make out a whole sandwich with one large bite taken out of it.

"_BERTIE! You put tomatoes on my sandwich!" Luv gagged, tossing the entire thing into the garbage can. _

_"You could just pick the tomatoes off..." he suggested in a timid voice. "Seems like a terrible waste, don't you think?"_

_A frustrated sigh. "Well Bertie, it's already in the trash, so what do you want me to do?"_

Bertie snatched up the dirty sandwich and bit into it. The lettuce had turned brown and the tomato juices had leaked through and made the entire thing soggy, but he didn't mind so much. He was starving. He dragged himself to his knees and slumped up against the kitchen counter, wincing a little as a particularly moist bit of sandwich slid down his throat. Once he woke up, he always had difficulty going back to bed no matter how tired he was. Perhaps getting some food in his belly would help him fall back asleep. And besides, if he was going to get through another day, he'd need plenty of sustenance. Living off nothing but stamina potion was not healthy.

Bertie polished off the rest of the sandwich and stood up shakily. A numbness shot through the back of his neck and head. A pinched nerve, perhaps. He hoped that was all it was. It wasn't unusual for him to collapse on the hardwood floor in the middle of the night. He was never the type who could just close his eyes and "go" to sleep. Rather, sleep had to come to him. And it wouldn't always come at the most convenient of times.

If he listened hard enough, he could hear the baby breathing in and out softly as she snoozed in her crib. In a way, he envied her. Since that nice young man in green had returned her favorite rattle, she'd been sleeping better, but he still had yet to get back into a healthy sleep routine. That blasted rattle. In his desperation, Bertie had tried replacing it with a dried-out gourd he dug out of the garden, but it just wasn't the same. The baby smashed the gourd into his head, spewing seeds and stringy innards all over the kitchen floor.

He still had yet to clean up the mess.

A long sigh hissed out of his mouth. His body still felt so heavy and tired, but his eyes seemed to want to stay open. There was no point tossing and turning in bed when sleep just wouldn't come, so he picked up the broom and dust pan. He figured his time was better spent catching up around the house.

Bertie scratched at his curly hair and shook a few gourd seeds onto the floor, sweeping them into the dust pan with the rest. Luv always left anything having to do with the baby to him, but Bertie never complained. He vividly remembered the day their child was born, how Luv had thrust her into his arms, giggling,_ "Here, Bertie! Now it's your turn to carry her for nine months!" _Bertie had taken their brand new baby girl with a jovial laugh, thinking the remark to be innocent at the time.

Oh how wrong he was.

After cleaning up the gourd's remains and the rest of the garbage he'd spilled, Bertie went to the sink and he threw some water on his face. He breathed out, dabbing his cheeks with a towel to soak up the water droplets. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror. Bertie was not an old man. He hadn't even hit forty yet, but he felt twenty years older than that. He reminded himself of his mother shortly before she had passed on. Sallow, pasty skin stretched over hollow cheekbones, and his hair hung off his head in matted, unwashed clumps. He was pale as a wraith; even in the dark, he could still see the blue blood vessels popping out of his pale hands. His limbs trembled. His baggy, red-rimmed eyes would twitch involuntarily. His muscles ached, his joints cracked, and his back felt like it would collapse. The slightest movement of his torso sent needle-like pains through his spine. He had thought carrying the baby would make him stronger, but with each passing day, it only seemed to diminish his strength.

When Bertie turned from the sink, his ragged eyes skimmed over a row of dim shadows cast upon the wall, the shadows of his wilting plants he had neglected to care for. He was once a passionate herbalist with an acute interest in plants and the healing potential they possessed. But these days, his old passion was more akin to an on-again, off-again hobby. Not even that. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he watered them or changed their soil. One week? Two weeks?

Their flimsy stems sagged under the weight of dry, shriveled leaves. In his plants, he saw himself. He saw his own neglect of himself. He saw his neglect of his dreams, dreams that withered away the moment he and his wife decided to bring a child into this world.

They always said once you had children your life was no longer your own. Bertie could attest that this was true beyond doubt. Of course, he loved his baby girl dearly and would give up anything for her. He didn't have a regret in the world. He just wished things were easier, that was all. It wouldn't be an overstatement to say he felt on the fringe of a nervous breakdown. There was never enough time in a day. They flew by so fast and he never could never catch his breath. Sometimes he thought he wouldn't get through another one, but somehow he always did. Somehow he managed. He never complained. And things never changed.

How often he craved the sweet release of sleep. But even his dreams were never the escape they used to be. No. These days, his dreams were not so far flung from reality. No longer would he dream of discovering new plants or traversing luscious green lands beneath the sea of clouds. Instead, he would dream of waking up. Of rolling out of bed—or up off the floor—wherever he happened to collapse. He would dream of taking a warm shower, dressing for work, feeding the baby, and heading off to the Bazaar. It was as if his beaten-down body was playing tricks on him in order to obtain what it so desperately needed. His body would rebel against his higher conscience and fool him into sleeping longer, creating the illusion that the day had already begun...

Sometimes he wasn't sure what had occurred in his unconscious mind and what occurred during his waking hours. The shower was always what tipped him off that things were fishy. That this was just a little too good to be true.

Bertie was lucky if he had time to shower twice a week.

Bertie rubbed his eyes and started lugging himself toward the other side of the other side of the room, deciding it was time to hit the sack. His body ached for his bed, and now his eyelids were threatening to droop shut. He felt as if he could conk out again at any second. He glanced at the clock. 5:30 in the morning. He had one hour to get some rest before it was time to get up for work, so he'd better get to it. On the occasion when he didn't surface from his dreams on his own, his wife would yell in his ear to get him up. The days when Luv had to wake _him_ were the worst.**  
**

He paused to look at her before slipping under the covers. She lay sprawled across the far bed, right where she'd flopped down shortly after dinner. They had been sleeping in separate beds since long before the baby was born. Luv had the "jimmy legs," as his late mother would have called it. She was a kicker. Every other night, she'd thrash and kick in her sleep as if fighting off an invisible swarm of wasps. And then Bertie would wake up with fresh black-and-blue bruises on his legs. Eventually, the abuse got to be too much for him to take, so Bertie would curl up on the floor to get some sleep while Luv stretched out on the bed, hogging the covers to herself. And he never complained.

One time after she kicked him out of bed, he stood over her for half an hour, contemplating whether he should suggest separate beds or not. He was so afraid bringing it up would offend her, but to his relief, she was fine with it. In fact, she loved the idea and she was glad for the extra space.

All that worrying for nothing.

There was a hiccup and a little whine from the crib. Bertie moaned. The baby was awake, for real this time. He squeezed his eyes shut and silently willed her to go back to sleep, but her fussing only got louder. "Shh...it's okay, it's okay..." he cooed, but she showed no signs of calming down.

He turned his head and looked across at Luv. He never could find it within him to wake her. He had hoped deep down that she would awaken and take the initiative to see to the baby's needs herself, but she never did. Tonight, though, he desperately needed rest. She had to step up for him just this once. She had to help. With some effort, he rolled to the edge of his bed.

"Luv?" Hesitantly, he leaned over and poked her. No response. He gave her a tiny nudge. When she didn't respond again, he nudged her a little harder. "Luv?!" he said again. He grasped her shoulder and shook her. Nothing. Was she dead?!

"SNNNNRRRKK!" She snored loudly. A little trail of drool snaked down her chin. No, she was still alive. Now the baby was full-on wailing, but Luv still didn't wake. Unlike Bertie, she was a heavy sleeper. But even she didn't used to sleep through the baby's fits like this. Usually when this happened, she'd smother her face in a pillow and grumble, "can you get that, Bertie?" but she hadn't done that in over a week. Even her nighttime thrashings had become few and far between. Odd.

Just then, he spotted a small flask on the end table between their beds. He slowly stood up and picked it up to examine it, unscrewing the cap. He lifted the bottle to his nose and took a deep whiff.

Sleep potion.

At that moment, something inside Bertie snapped. Something fragile and just barely held together. His jaw trembled. His hands shook. A terrible mixture of emotions attacked his psyche all at once. He felt betrayed, deserted, unappreciated. And something else. Angry.

He doubled over, suddenly feeling very ill. There was a twisted, sickening feeling in his chest. It weighted down his heart and consumed his entire being, making him feel as if he was imploding. In a frenzy, he dashed to the kitchen with the bottle of sleep potion and began assembling various ingredients on the counter—all insect parts, of course. Not fully aware of himself, he frantically emptied the narrow flask into a bowl and began mixing bugs into it, adding a dash of butterfly dust here, a pinch of crushed ladybug there. **  
**

Taking sleep potion to avoid helping him...how could she? How could she?! How could she abandon him and lump all the responsibility on him like that? This wasn't how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to raise their baby _together_. He needed help. Didn't she know how hard it was on him doing it alone?

Bertie seethed. Yes. She did know. She saw how it hurt him, how it _killed_ him, but she didn't care. She turned a blind eye to his struggles. She didn't want to lift a finger to help care for their child. She was perfectly fine with leaving the baby to him. Half the time, she wouldn't even do things for herself._ Bertie, empty my trash! Bertie, hang my panties out to dry! Bertie, make me a sandwich!  
_

Well, he couldn't wait on her anymore. He couldn't take care of both of them. He couldn't take it anymore. He'd had enough. It was too much. It would be the death of him.**  
**

It was either him or her.

Bertie took one last ingredient—a leaf from one of his dried-up plants—and crumbled it into the bottle. Finally, his newly infused potion was complete: a sleep potion with three times the potency. His hands tremored as he poured it back into the flask, splashing some onto the floor in the process. It would only take one sip. It would be painless, like going to sleep and never waking up. She wouldn't feel a thing.

A little bout of insane laughter burst from his pale lips. He had never felt so tired and yet so awake.

"Bertie? What are you doing?" A gruff voice spoke from behind. He turned around. Luv sat up in bed, squinting at him.

"Oh! You refilled my sleep potion!" A big-lipped smile spread across her face. "Be a dear and bring it over here, will you?"

Bertie obeyed. Head down, he glided toward her in a trance-like state, holding the deadly potion straight out. Luv rose up to meet him and grabbed the potion. She threw back her head and took a giant gulp of potion. A few seconds passed as she smacked her lips.**  
**

Suddenly, Luv gave a violent heave. The potion bottle flew out of her hand and shattered on the floor. She clutched her throat and sank to her knees, choking and hacking. Bertie gasped in shock, his hands flying up to his mouth. He hadn't expected her to react this way. Luv writhed on the floor, her eyes rolling back into her head until all Bertie would see were the whites, bulging and bloodshot. She reached for him, her breath coming out in quick, shallow gasps.

"—Bertie!" she rasped for dear life. "Bertie! Bertie...!...Bertie..."

* * *

"BERTIE!"

Bertie jolted awake, his eyes shooting wide open. "Wha?!"

"Bertie! What is the matter with you?! What are you doing in _my_ bed?"

Bertie looked around. Sure enough, he was lying face down on Luv's bed, sprawled across her midsection. His mouth moved, but no words came out. All he could do was gawk in bewilderment.

Luv's gaze went to the end table. Her sharp eyes didn't miss a thing. "Sneaking some of my sleep potion, were you? Naughty, naughty..." She wagged a disapproving finger at him. "You know, if you really wanted some, you could have just asked. But _someone_ still has to get up with the baby."

Regaining some of his wits about him, Bertie began to connect the dots and realize what happened. The sleep potion...how he'd been standing over Luv's bed when he inhaled its fumes. How he'd attempted to murder her. It was a nightmare. Just an awful nightmare.

"L-Luv!" he blurted out, jumping up. "I'm sorry! So, so sorry!"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Sorry for what? I just told you it's no big deal."

Bertie threw himself at her and hugged her tightly. She looked surprised, then wrapped an arm around him and hugged him back.

"I don't know sometimes, Bertie," she sighed, rolling her eyes. She slid out of his embrace and jumped out of bed, heading over to the crib. Bertie just knelt there on her bed in a stupor, the grisly nightmare still fresh on his conscience. He was mortified at himself. How could he? The mother of his child...his beloved wife who worked so hard every day to provide for their family...how could he even _conceive_ of the thought of poisoning her?

"Good morning, sweetie!" Luv said in a syrupy voice, peeking in the crib. The baby took one look at her and started crying again. She pursed her lips and made a sour face. "Ugh. Will you get that, Bertie?" she said, turning away and lumbering over to the pantry. "I'm hungry."

Bertie didn't complain. In a daze, he meandered over to the crib and cradled the baby in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth to soothe her. Holding his child in his arms made him feel calmer too, but he still couldn't shake the horrible dream. It left a rotten taste in his mouth, like the soggy sandwich he scarfed down earlier. He took a deep breath. No. There was really no reason to worry. In dreams, you weren't in your right mind. You did things you would never do in real life and neglected to do things you would have done had you known you were only dreaming. You couldn't help what you did or felt in a dream. Right?

Even so, it still scared him. It scared him that he even had that in him to begin with. Where had such violent inclinations arose from? A certain memory came back to him, one of a dream interpretation session he did with Sparrot a long time ago out of boredom. _"Dreams are both mysterious and revealing," _the fortuneteller had told him,_ "though their meanings often allude us, they are born out of very real feelings."_

Bertie shivered. The baby whimpered into his shoulder, sensing his fear. He twisted his head around and peeked at the bottle of sleep potion, his eyes widening. Too often, _frighteningly_ often, he teetered on that thin, imperceptible line between consciousness and sleep. Just how much of his nightmare had been real?

He disposed of the bottle just in case.

* * *

**—END—**


End file.
